Make room for your compass.
We are going north together.
The walls are fortune and disbelief,
footprints staging the end of time, leaving
these failures in a night of destruction,
crumbling opinions hardening into stone.
If the opening is dark enough,
its hidden corners will dissolve in your hands,
the chalk of old fires marking your visit
when whispering was never allowed.
This is what happens when fate
is given a chance to dry and protect
old markings against the last breath.
Climb down clutching pebbles that have
never been held, the cave a prism
removed from its fiery dance,
fading footholds waiting for visitations
before the invention of soup and bread.
Watch what you whisper, what you think.
When the first stone comes down,
think of the first person who ever bathed you,
but dont touch the white rocks
because they are already wet.